


Hold On, I'm Comin'

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV-Neal Caffrey, References to Kate, Torture, beatings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23119444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: An undercover op goes horribly wrong and Neal is in grave danger.
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	Hold On, I'm Comin'

We’re in Peter’s Taurus this morning on our way to the FBI office, and the drive entails our usual routine. I prefer Talk Radio but, since Peter controls the dials in his car just like he controls my life, an oldies station is playing during our commute. I’m totally unprepared when the song comes on the radio. It’s that one by Sam and Dave recorded way back in the Dark Ages of the 1960s, and when it begins to play it awakens a phantom in my memory. It’s hard to explain my affinity to the words or the melody as the soulful notes fill the car. I wasn’t even born when that song hit the pop charts, but, nonetheless, once upon a time, it meant something very intimate. On this particular morning, it is weaving its own kind of poignant nostalgia for me.

 _Hold On, I’m Comin’_ had been Kate’s and my special song. She loved to hear me croon the words, sometimes at the top of my lungs in a red convertible with the top down, or every time I pulled off a daring caper and was on my way back to her arms, and sometimes in a soft husky whisper when we were making love beneath the sheets. I was also fervently singing that same song when it spooled out of the tape deck of my escape vehicle from prison. I was coming to save her.

Of course, Peter is totally unaware that I have taken a trip down memory lane. He continues to discuss various aspects of our present case, but the man is really talking to himself because I am eons away in the past. Sometimes, my handler can be totally obtuse when it comes to picking up on subtle clues regarding raw emotions and feelings. Elizabeth is trying to help him shed his caveman ways, but it’s a slow process and questionable if he’ll ever evolve and reach the crest of that mountain. Don’t get me wrong, he’s further up the evolutionary chain than a knuckle-dragger, so I shouldn’t criticize. Peter’s smart in a lot of ways not connected to affairs of the heart, and he was responsible for getting me out of prison so that I could swan around Manhattan. Of course, my pond is a very small one, but it sure beats the hell out of a claustrophobic little cell with tic-marked wall décor.

Peter and I ride up in the elevator with him still mumbling to himself. Of course, the first thing on his agenda is a brainstorming session with his team about a cadre of murderous art thieves who have left a trail of bodies behind in their wake. Jones and Diana are attentive and on task, and I sit quietly still lost in my reverie until Peter utters a stern, “Stop woolgathering, Neal. Get with the program!” So, like a good little CI, I reluctantly haul myself back to the present and offer Peter a lifeline.

“I may have a way in,” I say slowly because that’s what Peter desperately wants to hear. It’s my job to be his backdoor into dark places where evil villains lurk.

“Enlighten me,” Peter commands, and I do. I graciously offer to impersonate a bad guy like our perps—a real kindred spirit, if you will. I can almost guarantee that I can slickly embed myself into their organization. It wasn’t like I hadn’t played this role before. Actually, not to sound egotistical, but I was pretty good at it. So, preparations were made, an identity and a back-history were created, and my tracker was removed. It seemed like that obnoxious thing was more off than on these days, and I wondered why I had become too complacent to take advantage of what should have been a tantalizing opportunity. However, I decide that introspection can wait for another day, and I set my mind to playing my part and waiting for my marks to stroll into my web. It didn’t take long for them to get curious and make an overture.

It should have gone off without a hitch, but the best laid plans can go awry at the drop of my fedora. This is the third day that I have been a captive enduring beatings and torture because my present jailers are demanding to know just exactly how screwed they are with the Feds. I am less than forthcoming, and that really pisses them off. They keep on with the brutal interrogation—just enough to cause me agony but not enough to render me unconscious. They still need information that must come out of my mouth. At some point in the unfurling days, I take my mind to a different place. I am no longer a lackey of the FBI. I travel back to a time when I am young and impetuous and innovative. I see myself in a past where I am a resilient and gifted escape artist and, with my last bit of determined strength, I resurrect my latent talents from the grave. I manage to slip my restraints and find a way out of a dilapidated structure near the docks. I am stumbling along blindly, not quite able to get my bearings. I really don’t know exactly where I am or which direction is up, but I do know the only way I’ll survive is if I keep moving.

Eventually, I meander into a seedy section of the city that actually has people—homeless, disenfranchised shadows, but people, nonetheless, hidden under layers of their tattered clothing or beneath their protective cardboard boxes. I sink down beside one grizzled old gentleman and sigh. Unbelievably, he doesn’t seem particularly spooked as he takes in my bloody and battered face. “Looks like you’ve fallen on hard times, boy,” he mutters sagely in something of an understatement.

“I need a phone,” I whisper in return.

“We all need something, son,” he sighs as he bobs his head sadly.

I have no idea how long I lay beside him sharing his body heat, but I finally succumb to letting go and allowing the darkness to overtake me. I’m back to a time when Kate was still alive and by my side. She’s smiling and teasing, “C’mon, Neal, sing our song.” And so I do, over and over in my head. It’s somehow comforting because I think I may be dying and she is waiting for me to join her. I’m actually a bit miffed when someone pulls me from my dreams. I open my crusted eyes and peer up at a stranger with a scarred and dirty face. I don’t understand what he wants from me at first until he holds up a small mobile phone in his hand. I don’t know where he got it, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it. “Make your call, boy,” he urges softly.

My fingers finally close over his offering and, with muscle memory, they punch in a number. I hear a voice that doesn’t seem to be mine whisper weakly, “I need help.”

Unbelievably, as I hold the phone close to my ear, I perceive someone frantically repeating my name over and over. I’m too far gone to respond, but that faceless specter hovering somewhere in the ether seems to intuitively know the right words to say.

“ _Hold On, I’m Comin’,”_ Peter reassures me, and, somehow, I know I will.


End file.
